Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios by Christian Cameron Page A

Turkish fleet – at least, the half still in the Asiatic Straits off Chios – was far more bunched up than it had been – less confident, Swan suspected.
    He came up with them as darkness was falling. His hands shook so badly he could scarcely keep the tiller against the wind, but he held his course, and near full dark, he brought his small boat through the picket ships without raising so much as a shout – in fact, he was ready with a fine story of escape from Christian dogs, but no one called out to him.
    He came alongside the flagship, and was finally challenged.
    ‘Take me to Messire Drappierro,’ he said in brash Turkish. He sounded terrified inside his own head. His heart hammered as if Princess Theodora had just dropped her gown.
    He thought of … nothing. He forced a smile, and went over the side, of his own free will, aboard the Turkish flagship, with his Turkish clothes worn incorrectly, and his turban tied in a way no true son of the faith – or daughter – would ever tie such a thing.
    A pair of janissaries grabbed him and threw him to the deck, and in a blinding flash of terror, he saw a terrible flaw in his plan.
    What if Drappierro isn’t aboard?
    But he had to try. ‘Messire Drappierro!’ he wailed.
    They stripped him. It was not done gently, and a pair of officers came to watch.
    ‘A Christian spy!' was the shout.
    ‘Search his boat!’ another called.
    ‘Master Drappierro!’ Swan wailed in real terror. The part of his brain that never turned off noted that he was being methodically beaten while stretched across the galley’s supply of gunpowder – the barrels were Italian.
    He was kicked twice – in the stomach and again in the privates. He writhed in agony, naked, on the deck.
    ‘He’s mine,’ Drappierro said. ‘Dear boy – couldn’t you just have come to the town like a civilised person?’
    Swan almost wet himself in relief. He couldn’t control his muscles. He was in the grip of a terror so absolute – it is one thing to contemplate capture by a cruel enemy, and another to endure it. In the light of the handful of torches and lanterns, the Turks looked demonic.
    ‘What do you mean, he is yours?’ one of the Turkish officers asked.
    Drappierro waved arrogantly. ‘One of my men. Understand, fool of a Turk? My men. Working for me. ’
    ‘I will search his boat anyway,’ the Turk spat.
    ‘Suit yourself,’ Drappierro said. ‘I am surrounded by men who prefer violence to thought. Master Swan, I do not think you will live long, lying naked on the deck of this ship. Have you got it? ’
    Swan pointed mutely at the Turkish officer. He found it hard to speak. Just as he began to recover his wits, he saw Auntie’s shadowy steward watching him.
    But that was terror turning to … hope.
    The African turned and vanished into the aft cabin.
    Drappierro was arguing with the Turkish officer. ‘You took a ring from the prisoner?’ he asked.
    The Turk glared at him. ‘Perhaps! What is it to you, sir?’
    ‘It is mine. The prisoner merely carried it to prove himself from me.’ Drappierro held out his hand.
    The Turkish officer drew himself up. Swan had seen the same gesture from an archer in Southwark who couldn’t pay his bill. ‘What does it look like?’ he asked.
    Drappierro spat. ‘I can have you bastinadoed, you fool! I am the Sultan’s friend. ’ He held out his hand. ‘It has a crystal or a diamond in the bezel and the ring is gold. The head is of Herakles …’
    The Turk had the ring on his finger, and he gave himself away looking at it. The crystal winked in the torchlight. The Turk cursed, and flung the thing into Drappierro’s greedy hand. The Genoese man took it.
    The other Turk – just clambering back over the galley’s low side – watched with something like amusement. ‘It is your ring?’ he asked in low, grave tones.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ Drappierro said with evident delight.
    The Turk bowed and caught his brother officer by his flowing sleeve and dragged him